She had been less fortunate in her inquiries than Iggulden, for her Aunt Sydney of Meriden (a badged and certificated Daughter of the Revolution to boot) answered her inquiries with a two-paged discourse on patriotism, the leaflets of a Village Improvement Society, of which she was president, and a demand for an overdue subscription to a Factory Girls' Reading Circle. Sophie burned it all in the Orpheus and Eurydice grate, and kept her own counsel.
“What I want to know,” said George, when Spring was coming, and the gardens needed thought, “is who will ever pay me for my labour? I've put in at least half a million dollars' worth already.”
“Sure you're not taking too much out of yourself?” his wife asked.
“Oh, no; I haven't been conscious of myself all winter.” He looked at his brown English gaiters and smiled. “It's all behind me now. I believe I could sit down and think of all that—those months before we sailed.”
“Don't—ah, don't!” she cried.
“But I must go back one day. You don't want to keep me out of business always—or do you?” He ended with a nervous laugh.
Sophie sighed as she drew her own ground-ash (of old Iggulden's cutting) from the hall rack.
“Aren't you overdoing it too? You look a little tired,” he said.
“You make me tired. I'm going to Rocketts to see Mrs. Cloke about Mary.” (This was the sister of the telegraphist, promoted to be sewing-maid at Pardons.) “Coming?”
“I'm due at Burnt House to see about the new well. By the way, there's a sore throat at Gale Anstey—”